Coming In?

Veronica broke surface just below Macarthur's fishwhite toes, which were wiggling nervously. She sucked in a breath, her shoulders breaching and sinking to the rhythm of her slow kick. "Coming in, Miles?"

"In," Miles repeated. He glanced down at himself. Somehow they had inveigled him into a pair of Urquhart's bathing trunks, these enormous baggies which seemed to be, well, enameled with day-glo images of 747s, ocean liners, stretch limousines, machine pistols, and other tokens of American Affluence as seen by a Chinese pieceworker. Miles wasn't sure he wanted to know what the suit looked like once it got wet.

"Come on," Thea chided. "Don't be bashful now." Which around these parts was something of a rallying cry, you see. Pretty soon there was a spontaneous cheering section assembled there in the deep end of the Creek, a dozen or more citizens exhorting Miles to Just Do It.